Uncle Abner, Master of Mysteries Read online

  Abner went on, “Was it a servant at Eastwood Court?”

  He paused, and Randolph interrupted.

  “On the night of this tragedy,” said the Justice of the Peace, “all the Negroes in the household attended a servants’ ball on a neighboring estate. They went in a body and returned in a body. The aged Duncan Moore was alive when they left the house, and dead when they returned.”

  “But, Randolph,” Abner went on, “independent of this chance event, conclusive in itself—which I feel is an accident to which we are hardly entitled—do not our inferences legitimately indicate a criminal agent other than a servant at Eastwood Court?

  “Sane men do not commit violent crimes without a motive. There was no motive to move any servant except that of gain, and there was no gain to be derived from the death of the aged Duncan Moore, except that to be got from rifling his secretary. But the one who knew so much about this secretary that he was certain it was locked, would also have known enough about it to know that it contained nothing of value.” He hesitated and moved the handle of his cup. “Now, sir,” he added, “two persons remain.” The lawyer, fingering the box of cigarettes, broke it open and presented them to my uncle and Randolph. He lighted one, and over the table looked Abner in the face.

  “You mean Northcote Moore and myself,” he said in a firm, even voice. “Well, sir, which one was it?” My uncle remained undisturbed.

  “Sir,” he said, “there was at least a pretense of consistency in the work of the one who manufactured the evidences of a burglar. There was a window open in the north wing at the end of the long, many-cornered passage that leads through Eastwood Court to the room in the south wing where the aged Duncan Moore was killed. Now some one had gone along that passage, as you pointed out to Randolph when Eastwood Court was first inspected, because there were fingerprints on the walls at the turns and angles. These fingerprints were marked in the dust on the walls of the passage on the east side, but on the west side, beginning heaviest near Duncan Moore’s room, the prints were in blood.

  “These marks on the wall show that the assassin did, in fact, enter by this passage and return along it. But he did not enter by the open window. The frame of this window was cemented into the casement with dust. This dust was removed only on the inside. Moreover, violence had been used to force it open, and the marks of this violence were all plainly visible on the inside of the frame.”

  He stopped, remained a moment silent, and then continued;

  “This corridor is the usual and customary way—in fact, the only way leading from the north wing of Eastwood Court to the south wing. Duncan Moore alone occupied the south wing. And, sir, on this night, Northcote Moore and yourself alone occupied the north wing. You were both equally familiar with this passage, since you lived in the house, and used it constantly.” Abner paused and looked at Mr. Esdale Moore. “Shall I go on, sir?” he said.

  “Pray do,” replied the lawyer.

  Abner continued, in his deep, level voice.

  “Now, sir, you will realize why Randolph and I felt an instinctive fear of the result of these deductions, and perhaps, sir, why your subconscious conclusions went no further than a premonition.”

  “But the law of Virginia,” put in the Justice, “is no respecter of persons. If the Governor should do a murder, his office would not save him from the gallows.”

  “It would not,” said the lawyer. “Go on, Abner.”

  My uncle moved slightly in his chair.

  “If the aged Duncan Moore were removed,” he continued, “Northcote Moore would take the manor-house and the lands. For Esdale Moore to take the estate, both the aged Duncan Moore and the present incumbent must be removed. Only the aged Duncan Moore was removed. Who was planning a gain, then, by this criminal act? Esdale Moore or Northcote Moore?

  “Another significant thing: Mr. Esdale Moore knew this secretary was unlocked on this night; Northcote Moore did not. Who, then, was the more likely to break it open as evidence of a presumptive robbery?

  “And, finally, sir, who would grope along this corridor feeling with his hands for the corners and angles of the wall, one who could see, or a blind man?”

  My uncle stopped and sat back in his chair.

  The lawyer leaned over and put both arms on the table.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, since he addressed both Randolph and Abner, “you amaze me! You accuse the most prominent man in Virginia.”

  “Before the law,” said the Justice, “all men are equal.” The lawyer turned toward my uncle, as to one of more consideration.

  “While you were making your deductions,” he said, “I had to insist that you go on, for I was myself included. I wag bound to hear you to the end, although you shocked me at every step. But now, I beg you to reflect. Northcote Moore belongs to an ancient and honorable family. He is old; he is blind. Surely something can be done to save him.”

  “Nothing,” replied the Justice firmly.

  Abner lifted his face, placid, unmoving, like a mask. “Perhaps,” he said.

  The two men before him at the table moved with astonishment.

  “Perhaps!” cried the Justice of the Peace. “This is Virginia!”

  But it was the lawyer who was the more amazed. He had not moved; he did not move; but his face, as by some sorcery, became suddenly perplexed.

  The tavern was now deserted; every one had gone back into the courthouse. The three men were alone. There was silence except for the noises of the village and the far-off hum of winged insects in the air. Mr. Esdale Moore sat facing north along the upper porch; Abner opposite; Randolph looking eastward toward the courthouse. My uncle did not go on at once. He reached across the table for one of the tobacco cigarettes. The lawyer mechanically took up the box with his hand nearest to the Justice of the Peace and opened the lid with his thumb and finger. Abner selected one but did not light it.

  “Writers on the law,” he began, “warn us against the obvious inference when dealing with the intelligent criminal agent, and for this reason: while the criminal of the lowest order seeks only to cover his identity, and the criminal of the second order to indicate another rather than himself, the criminal of the first order, sir, will sometimes undertake a subtle finesse—a double intention.

  “The criminal of the lowest order gives the authorities no one to suspect. The criminal of the second order sets up a straw man before his own door, hoping to mislead the authorities. But the criminal of the first order sets it before the door of another, expecting the authorities of the state to knock it down and take the man behind it.

  “Now, sir,”—my uncle paused—“looked at from this quarter, do not our obvious deductions lack a certain conclusiveness?

  “If Northcote Moore were hanged for murder, Esdale Moore would take the manor-house and the landed estate. Therefore, he might wish Northcote Moore hanged, just as Northcote Moore might wish Duncan Moore murdered.

  “And, if one were deliberately placing a straw man, would there be any inconsistency in breaking open a secretary obviously unlocked? The straw, sir, would be only a trifle more conspicuous!

  “And the third deduction”—his gray eyes narrowed, and he spoke slowly: “If one born blind, and another, were accustomed to go along a passage day after day; in the dark, who would grope, feeling his way in the night, step by step, along the angles of the wall—the one who could see, or the blind man?”

  The amazed Justice struck the tables with his clenched hand.

  “By the gods,” he cried, “not the blind man! For to the blind man, the passage was always dark!”

  The lawyer had not moved, but his face, in its desperate perplexity, began to sweat. The Justice swung around upon him, but Abner put out his hand.

  “A moment, Randolph,” he said. “The human body is a curious structure. It has two sides, as though two similar mechanisms were joined with a central trunk—the dexter side, or that which is toward the south when the man is facing the rising sun, and the sinister side, or that which
is toward the north. These sides are not coequal. One of them is controlling and dominates the man, and when the task before him is difficult, it is with this more efficient controlling side that he approaches it.

  “Thus, one set on murder and desperately anxious to make no sound, to make no false step, to strike no turn or angle, would instinctively follow the side of the wall that he could feel along with his controlling hand. This passage runs north and south. The bloody finger-prints are all on the west side of the wall, the prints in the dust on the east side; therefore, the assassin followed the east side of the wall when he set out on his deadly errand, and the west side when he returned with the blood on him.

  “That is to say,” and his voice lifted into a stronger note, “he always followed the left side of the wall.

  “Why, sir?” And he got on his feet, his voice ringing, his finger pointing at the sweating, cornered man. “Because his controlling side was on the left—because he was left handed!

  “And you, sir—I have been watching you—”

  The pent-up energies of Mr. Esdale Moore seemed to burst asunder.

  “It’s a lie!” he cried.

  And he lunged at Abner across the table, with his clenched left hand.

  Chapter 14

  The Mystery of Chance

  It was a night like the pit. The rain fell steadily. Now and then a gust of wind rattled the shutters, and the tavern sign, painted with the features of George the Third, now damaged by musket-balls and with the eyes burned out, creaked.

  The tavern sat on the bank of the Ohio. Below lay the river and the long, flat island, where the ill-starred Blennerhasset had set up his feudal tenure. Flood water covered the island and spread everywhere—a vast sea of yellow that enveloped the meadow-lands and plucked at the fringe of the forest.

  The scenes in the tavern were in striking contrast. The place boomed with mirth, shouts of laughter, ribald tales and songs. The whole crew of the Eldorado of New Orleans banqueted in the guest-room of the tavern. This was the open room for the public. Beyond it and facing the river was the guest-room for the gentry, with its floor scrubbed with sand, its high-boy in veneered mahogany, its polished andirons and its various pretensions to a hostelry of substance.

  At a table in this room, unmindful of the bedlam beyond him, a man sat reading a pamphlet. He leaned over on the table, between two tall brass candlesticks, his elbows on the board, his thumb marking the page. He had the dress and manner of a gentleman—excellent cloth in his coat, a rich stock and imported linen. On the table sat a top hat of the time, and in the corner by the driftwood fire was a portmanteau with silver buckles, strapped up as for a journey. The man was under forty, his features regular and clean-cut; his dark brows joined above eyes big and blue and wholly out of place in the olive skin.

  Now and then he got up, went over to the window and looked out, but he was unable to see anything, for the rain continued and the puffs of wind. He seemed disturbed and uneasy. He drummed on the sill with his fingers, and then, with a glance at his portmanteau, returned to his chair between the two big tallow candles.

  From time to time the tavern-keeper looked in at the door with some servile inquiry. This interruption annoyed the guest.

  “Damme, man,” he said, “are you forever at the door?”

  “Shall I give the crew rum, sir?” the landlord asked.

  “No,” replied the man; “I will not pay your extortions for imported liquor.”

  “They wish it, sir.”

  The man looked up from his pamphlet

  “They wish it, eh,” he said with nice enunciation. “Well, Mr. Castoe, I do not!”

  The soft voice dwelt on the “Mr. Castoe” with ironical emphasis. The mobile upper lip, shadowed with a silken mustache, lifted along the teeth with a curious feline menace.

  The man was hardly over his table before the door opened again. He turned abruptly, like a panther, but when he saw who stood in the door, he arose with a formal courtesy.

  “You are a day early, Abner,” he said. “Are the Virginia wagons in for their salt and iron?”

  “They will arrive tomorrow,” replied my uncle; “the roads are washed out with the rains.”

  The man looked at my uncle, his hat and his greatcoat splashed with mud.

  “How did you come?” he asked.

  “Along the river,” replied my uncle, “I thought to find you on the Eldorado.”

  “On the Eldorado!” cried the man. “On such a night, when the Tavern of George the Third has a log fire and kegs in the cellar!”

  My uncle entered, closed the door, took off his greatcoat and hat, and sat down by the hearth.

  “The boat looked deserted,” he said.

  “To the last nigger,” said the man. “I could not take the comforts of the tavern and deny them to the crew.”

  My uncle warmed his hands over the snapping fire.

  “A considerate heart, Byrd,” he said, with some deliberation, “is a fine quality in a man. But how about the owners of your cargo, and the company that insures your boat?”

  “The cargo, Abner,” replied the man, “is in Benton’s warehouse, unloaded for your wagons. The boat is tied up in the backwater. No log can strike it.”

  He paused and stroked his clean-cut, aristocratic jaw.

  “The journey down from Fort Pitt was damnable,” he added, “—miles of flood water, yellow and running with an accursed current. It was no pleasure voyage, believe me, Abner. There was the current running logs, and when we got in near the shore, the settlers fired on us. A careless desperado, your settler, Abner!”

  “More careless, Byrd, do you think,” replied my uncle, “than the river captain who overturns the half-submerged cabins with the wash of his boat?”

  “The river,” said the man, “is the steamboat’s highway.”

  “And the cabin,” replied my uncle, “is the settler’s home.”

  “One would think,” said Byrd, “that this home was a palace and the swamp land a garden of the Hesperides, and your settler a King of the Golden Mountains. My stacks are full of bullet holes.”

  My uncle was thoughtful by the fire.

  “This thing will run into a river war,” he said. “There will be violence and murder done.”

  “A war, eh!” echoed the man. “I had not thought of that, and yet, I had but now an ultimatum. When we swung in tonight, a big backwoodsman came out in a canoe and delivered an oration. I have forgotten the periods, Abner, but he would burn me at the stake, I think, and send the boat to Satan, unless I dropped down the river and came in below the settlement.”

  He paused and stroked his jaw again with that curious gesture.

  “But for the creature’s command,” he added, “I would have made the detour. But when he threatened, I ran in as I liked and the creature got a ducking for his pains. His canoe went bottom upward, and if he had not been a man of oak, he would have gone himself to Satan.”

  “And what damage did you do?” inquired my uncle.

  “Why, no damage, as it happened,” said the man. “Some cabins swayed, but not one of them went over. I looked, Abner, for a skirmish in your war. There was more than one rifle at a window. If I were going to follow the river,” he continued, “I would mount a six-pounder.”

  “You will quit the river, then,” remarked my uncle.

  “It is a dog’s life, Abner,” said the man. “To make a gain in these days of Yankee trading, the owner must travel with his boat. Captains are a trifle too susceptible to bribe. I do not mean gold-pieces, slipped into the hand, but the hospitalities of the shopkeeper. Your Yankee, Abner, sees no difference in men, or he will waive it for a sixpence in his till. The captain is banqueted at his house, and the cargo is put on short. One cannot sit in comfort at New Orleans and trade along the Ohio.”

  “Is one, then, so happy in New Orleans?” asked my uncle.

  “In New Orleans, no,” replied the man, “but New Orleans is not the world. The world is in Piccadilly, wh
ere one can live among his fellows like a gentleman, and see something of life—a Venetian dancer, ladies of fashion, and men who dice for something more than a trader’s greasy shillings.”

  Byrd again got up and went to the window. The rain and gusts of wind continued. His anxiety seemed visibly to increase.

  My uncle arose and stood with his back to the driftwood fire, his hands spread out to the flame. He glanced at Byrd and at the pamphlet on the table, and the firm muscles of his mouth hardened into an ironical smile.

  “Mr. Evlyn Byrd,” he said, “what do you read?” The man came back to the table. He sat down and crossed one elegant knee over the other.

  “It is an essay by the Englishman, Mill,” he said, “reprinted in the press that Benjamin Franklin set up at Philadelphia. I agree with Lord Fairfax where the estimable Benjamin is concerned: ‘Damn his little maxims! They smack too much of New England!’ But his press gives now and then an English thing worth while.”

  “And why is this English essay worth while?” asked my uncle.

  “Because, Abner, in its ultimate conclusions, it is a justification of a gentleman’s most interesting vice. ‘Chance,’ Mr. Mill demonstrates, ‘is not only at the end of all our knowledge, but it is also at the beginning of all our postulates.’ We begin with it, Abner, and we end with it. The structure of all our philosophy is laid down on the sills of chance and roofed over with the rafters of it.”

  “The Providence of God, then,” said my uncle, “does not come into Mr. Mill’s admirable essay.”

  Mr. Evlyn Byrd laughed. “It does not, Abner,” he said. “Things happen in this world by chance, and this chance is no aide-de-camp of your God. It happens unconcernedly to all men. It has no rogue to ruin and no good churchman, pattering his prayers, to save. A man lays his plans according to the scope and grasp of his intelligence, and this chance comes by to help him or to harm him, as it may happen, with no concern about his little morals, and with no divine intent.”

  “And so you leave God out,” said my uncle, with no comment.